


Panic!... at the Shitty Gay Club

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bartender Benny, Benny Lafitte & Dean Winchester Friendship, Best Friends, Castiel Is So Done, Clubbing, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Friends to Lovers, Gay Bar, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Dean, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-29 20:52:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5142104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He feels like he’s in a backed-up grocery line. His mind is beeping like the cashier’s scanner, but he’s not ringing up anything. Cas doesn’t seem to be either. He just narrows his eyes, real concentrated-like, and says, “I know.”</p><p>Or the one where Dean is obliviously in love and Cas finally sets him straight (well... sorta...you get it).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Panic!... at the Shitty Gay Club

Anyone who knows Dean knows he’s a fucking mess when it comes to his feelings.

He spills feelings like he spills alcohol down his throat, impulsively, irresponsibly, with no point other than to get it down—or in this case, _out—_ of his system.

That’s why, when it comes to watching his best friend Cas being hit on by another smarmy asshole who can’t hold onto much that doesn’t come with an umbrella, it’s impossible for him to look away. Just a few years ago, Dean was dealing assholes like him a lesson in losing.

Back in high school, Dean wasn’t much of a jock or a theatre kid—hell, the _chess_ team probably didn’t want him—but he definitely got his five seconds to fame when the new kid got called a faggot on the way to the restroom. (“Why don’t you pick on someone who fits the description?”— He didn’t know the term was _bi_ , but he didn’t care much about his reputation. It left the great undertakers speechless, that’s all that mattered.)

“Just tell him already, _Chief,”_ the bartender says, wiping down the counters with a sigh. “I get this is a gay bar but I _will_ throw you out for public indecency.”

Dean throws his head back. “Public indecency? For what, gazing _amorously_ into the bottom of the bottle?” Benny’s eyebrows lift, revealing sky blue eyes. “Hey, I read.”

“You’re Dean fucking Winchester; shouldn’t this be a cakewalk?”

“It’s different; Cas is… he’s just different, alright? Hit me.” Benny reaches for another Corona and flips the cap, guzzling half the bottle in less than a few seconds, and hands it to Dean. Dean’s not one to gripe about double-dipping but—“Jeez, don’t over pour.”

“The sooner you finish that off, the sooner you march your drunken ass over there.”

“Why don’t _you_ talk to him?”

Benny—the fucker—snorts, “Yeah, sure. I’m sure he’d like to hear his best friend is _a corps perdu_ in love with him from the guy who refills his drinks.”

Dean’s really starting to regret befriending the bartender. Then again, he may have just been that obvious. Jess, his younger brother’s girlfriend, was the first to tell Dean batted for both teams—ironically during a casual game of baseball with her, Sam, and her family (“bonding experience” Dean’s ass, he got a black eye that day). She had pulled him aside, gently telling him that if he didn’t keep his eyes off her brother on first base, that’s as far as he would get.

Dean kinda liked Jessica.

“Alright, fine, but first,” he says gruffly, raising his beer before bringing it to his mouth in lieu of his courage.

Benny just laughs, moving onto the next sob story. It’s a tale as old as the Mayans, the two of them. Castiel just hasn’t caught onto the thieving glances or the midnight movie marathons or why Dean has to have someone’s arms around him before he falls into _Dreamscape_ (what he doesn’t tell Cas is he’s the only one he lets hold him, not even the one-nighters he picks up at bars like this very one).

Somehow, his feet are moving and sooner than later he’s met with the impossibly blue eyes of the man he came here with. Smarmy Asshole #345 isn’t joined at his hip anymore, which is a relief, but that also means he can’t back out of what he’s about to do… and Cas is giving him _that look_ , the look that’s not intended to be rude or sarcastic because he’s genuinely confused and needs further explanation as to why his best friend is edging closer to him just like Smarmy Asshole #345.

“Dean? Is everything okay?” he asks, voice lower than usual.

Dean nods, shaking off his anxiety to the blaring beat of the music from the other end of the club. Honestly it’s shit music, but it helps him focus on the task at hand. “No—I mean, yeah, everything’s fine, I’m just… I have to tell you something.”

“Anything,” he says with so much sincerity Dean wants to duck and run, but Cas is doing that thing where he’s squeezing his arm reassuringly and _is that_ _glitter_ that came off his hand??  Could this night get any worse?! Between the strobe lights and the drinks, Cas looks like _he’s_ the one who’s about to puke, which isn’t fair. “Dean, what’s—?”

“I can’t look at you in that ridiculous outfit,” Dean blurts, which isn’t entirely a lie. Cas is in a bumblebee sweater with a leather jacket and slacks in the middle of fucking June and is still somehow drawing in dudes—hot ones, no less—like a magnet.

Cas scrunches his nose and looks down. “Dean, I don’t—”

“Lose the sweater; then you can dance with me.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas growls his name like a curse, plump pink lips turned in a pout, “my clothes are fine.”

Dean ignores the look Benny’s giving him from the bar in favor of Cas’s hand. “Then what’re we waiting for?”

He clasps their sweaty palms together and drags him toward the sea of dancing flesh. The music is even louder and the drums play in cadence to his heart, squirming around like an inked-out octopus in his chest.

It doesn’t help that that ink is the color of Castiel’s hair or that his hips are swaying criminally closer to him—

Cas’s strong arms wrap around his shoulders like an electrical cord, trussing him in place. Dean throws his head back. He wants to laugh, but the sound is trapped in his throat. Then his knees buckle and the room is spinning faster than it should, and before he can say _slip a mickey,_ his world fades to black.

***

Dean wakes up with a splitting headache—feeling like he did one too _many_ splits minutes before—and hacking up way too much saliva. He doesn’t recall doing the spread eagle for anyone in a bathroom stall, and yet there’s this unmistakable chlorine taste doing the Macarena on his tongue.

He bats his eyes, readjusting his focus. He sees through the blur uneven square patterns etched into gonorrhea-stained porcelain and his suspicions are confirmed. He is, in fact, in a bathroom stall. And what he’s leaning against is definitely a toilet, hair dripping wet.

Okay, _now,_ he’s one to gripe about double-dipping.

“Dean? Dean? Are you alright?” a comforting voice asks him from what feels like a hundred miles away. Dean whips his head—badidea—in the direction of Castiel, who’s by his side in an instant. Dean would grin if his whole face didn’t feel like it was on fire.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here, I’m fine,” he says. “What happened?”

“You went into shock, I think. I don’t know.” Cas takes him by surprise when he slaps his chest like a fish out of water. Dean tries to recoil, shielding himself from his wrath. “Don’t _ever_ to that again, assbutt.”

“Well, Cas, not for nothing but the last person who tried that move on me… I got laid.”

“Dean, I just dunked your head into a toilet.”

“I’m good, I’m good!” he retorted, throwing his hands up. “Dude, seriously, what the hell though?”

“I don’t know! You tell me, one minute we’re on the dance floor and the next you went boneless on me.”

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

Dean’s response is regurgitated into the toilet. When he comes back up for air, he waves his hand knowingly. “Okay, that was definitely the taquitos.” He doesn’t have to see Cas to know he’s giving him a plaintive look. He’s always had a way of seeing through his bullshit like cheap plastic wrap.

“Dean, what is it? What’s got you so sick you can’t even tell me what’s going on?” he asks.

“Cas, ’s not you—” Cas stops him while he’s ahead.

“Don’t you use that antiquated line on me, Dean Winchester. What is it?” He pauses, adding for good measure: “Before I give you a _reason_ to be sick.”

“Okay, alright… listen, man,” he says, sitting up straighter because he’s a _man,_ he’s not going to do this slouched over a latrine. “I’m gonna tell you something n’ you have to promise not to freak out.”

“Likewise, Keith Smooth.”

Dean chuckles, then comes out with the big reveal: “I like you.”

He feels like he’s in a backed-up grocery line. His mind is beeping like the cashier’s scanner, but he’s not ringing up anything. Cas doesn’t seem to be either. He just narrows his eyes, real concentrated-like, and says, “I know.”

And then the cashier calls for customer service because _wait—“_ You what?”

“I know,” Cas says, “Why do you think I’ve turned down every guy in this club since we came here?”

“But I don’t—why would you do that if you don’t—?”

“Maybe because I’m love with you too, you ass,” he says, not even breaking a sweat, and, _okay_ , Dean has to smile at the weight in words so lighthearted.

“Guess we’re both a couple of dumbasses.”

“I prefer the word trusting. Less dumb, less ass.”

“Let’s get out of here?”

“In a minute,” he says, blindly reaching for his best friend’s hand, and for once, when Cas’s warm fingers intertwine with his, he thinks finally, _finally_ everything is going to be okay.


End file.
